


How Not to Talk About It

by SkartoArgento



Category: Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Anal Sex, Co-workers, Kissing, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Control, Pheromones, Sex, awkward couch sex, fun with augmentations, handjob, social enhancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 13:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11105580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkartoArgento/pseuds/SkartoArgento
Summary: Adam learns that he needs a little more practice with his augmentations, especially when trying to persuade Pritchard.





	How Not to Talk About It

 

* * *

 

A thick, not-unpleasant smell of oil oozed through the gap of Pritchard's office door when Adam eased it open. Everyone else managed to keep their offices smelling like new carpet, or perfume, aftershave, the old papery scent of files (how strange, the things he noticed now) – even Sarif's office, with its faint undertones of whiskey, could be called normal. Pritchard's office had been converted into a mix of workshop, tech lab and, judging by the faint glow of light when he left one morning at three AM, sleeping quarters. How did Sarif tolerate that?

The high whine of drill masked the click of the door and his footsteps. Under the old electric motorcycle that held pride of place in the middle of the office (how did Sarif tolerate THAT?), Pritchard's legs, one bent at the knee, stuck out, the very definition of a trip hazard. A slip of skin peeked between the hem of a white turtleneck and the waistband of pants.

He cleared his throat over the drill's monotonous screech, and then again when he received no reply.

The drill stopped. Against the sudden quiet, a faint scratch of music rose from under the motorcycle. He tapped the toe of a boot against the wheel, and _that_ sure scared the rabbit from its bolthole. With a clumsy scuffle of elbow and knee, Pritchard emerged by degrees, the scowl etched in forehead and lips softened by the smear of grease that ran from nose to hairline, and the fingerprint of soot on one cheek. More scratchy music from the small buds of earphones, louder when Pritchard removed them with a dusty finger.

“Jensen, if you kick my bike again, I'm going to reprogram your infolink so that it plays static between two and six in the morning. And I won't spare the volume override either.”

“I didn't _kick_ your bike, Francis. It's fine. Not my fault you're so distracted fiddling around with that thing to pay attention to your surroundings.”

Pritchard's palm rested on the front of the white turtleneck. “Oh, forgive me, I must have missed your 101 class on how to be a paranoid super-cop.”

The couch shifted under his ass as he sat down. Finally. Training new guards ate up all the time in the day. “No, but you aced the test on how to be a dramatic bastard. I can tell you studied hard for that one. Anyway, I didn't come here to play games with you. Let's consider this an official work meeting.”

Pritchard stood, wiped grease from fingers to a rag, a mechanic who just so happened to perform his work in an office instead of a garage. The brief stretch of stomach vanished when the turtleneck smoothed down. “Hm.” Instead of paying attention to him, Pritchard stared out of the glass wall at the dark, empty offices around them. “I didn't realise it was that late.”

“Yep, day turned into night again.” His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the couch arm, but Pritchard seemed far more interested in digging dirt out from beneath bitten fingernails. All right, fine, that was one game he could cheat at.

Orange bars flicked in his vision, the social enhancer overriding his HUD as it scanned context, cross-checked visual cues with his retinal implant. It seized Pritchard as the target, gathered the results together and displayed them in helpful boxes. Personality traits – aggressive, possessive, egocentric. Well, yeah, he could have figured those out all on his own. The psychological profile would take too long to read through, and him sitting there silent, staring, tended to unnerve a lot of people.

Visual cues caught interesting details, like Pritchard's tense muscles, the degree of pupil focus. Pretending to ignore his presence, but at the same time, watching him very carefully, the way someone might watch an unknown huge dog out of the corner of their eye.

He shifted on the couch, tilted his head to rest against the back. A bed would feel great after this. “Sarif's still talking about going to that conference in Montreal. The one Taggart's protesting? Where everyone's dragging their damn heels about giving me a risk report?”

“So?”

“ _So_ I still don't think it's safe for him to go there alone. I get that he's anxious about what happened last year in the labs, but we'd be better off going with him.”

“'We'?” The social enhancer perked up as Pritchard turned towards him. A straggled lock of hair clung to the motor grease. “There's no 'we', Jensen. And if you couldn't persuade him in a meeting before, then I doubt he'll suddenly come around. You make it sound as if there won't be a VTOL full of security going with him.”

Little orange lines waited for his reply. What could he say to persuade Pritchard? Threats wouldn't work, would make things so much worse with an aggressive personality type. Same with making accusations that Pritchard didn't care about Sarif's safety – that would probably raise hell with the possessive aspect...

“Look, we're the best he has. I don't know why he isn't taking you either, they probably don't have a great cyber security presence there.” Maybe that was being unfair to the organisers – but how was he supposed to know without a risk report? “He'll listen to you if you back me up.”

A tick of interest from the social enhancer interface, but Pritchard still frowned in his direction. Have to ask Sarif if a genuine smile ever crossed that face. “He's probably gone to more conferences than you've fired bullets. If you want to try and persuade him again, be my guest, but I'm not about to entertain your separation anxiety, Jensen.”

“It's not about separation anxiety, Pritchard, it's about keeping Sarif safe. Or don't you want that?”

Pritchard's gaze didn't waver, and he didn't need a social enhancer to tell him he wasn't convincing. “I should think that a few of your guards can handle it. By the way, I agree with him, if you hadn't noticed. Who's to say an attack won't happen while Sarif is away?” The back of Pritchard's hand smeared the trail of oil into a curve that clung to eyebrow. “He says we're needed here, so I'll take his word over yours, if you don't mind.”

Well, this was going great. Even the social enhancer gave the equivalent of a baffled shrug – no speech suggestions, and the persuasion level reader at a flatline. Fine, time for the last trick up his sleeve.

The first time overriding the pheromone trigger had been a bored experiment. Tired in his apartment, and well into the second month of post-aumentation sick leave, he'd finally plucked up the courage to explore the social enhancer, the CASIE aug. A couple of confused pizza deliverymen later, he had the basics down, but even without a target if he pushed hard enough a little warning would pop up, a slash of red letters that informed him pheromones were not recommended in that situation. Persistence paid off with a subtle pressure in the air, a slow heat under his skin.

But he'd been alone, and all that happened after he read up on the chemicals in the pheromones, the air still full of their pleasant buzz, was an embarrassed shower.

A rasp of red across his HUD, a little nudge, and the pheromones diffused into the air. If he had smell like he was ready to get knocked up to change Pritchard's mind, then fine.

CASIE shifted to adjust for the pheromones, popped up a couple of options along with an analysis of heart rate. A bit of play on that possessiveness to start with. “Yeah, I get it, you're his obedient little computer guy. He trusts you, that's great. He should.” One ankle over the other with a forced casualness. Pupil dilation at the movement, relaxation by degrees.

“He trusts me to do my job here.” The rag in Pritchard's hand balled up, tossed beside the bike, and Pritchard ran fingers over the handlebars, turned the front wheel with a pull. “You might be insecure about your position, Jensen, but frankly, that's not my problem.”

Were the pheromones even working at all? Useless aug shit...

More pressure, and CASIE sent an alarm across his HUD. Even his augmented hands picked up the change in temperature, the slow creep of warmth. He perched on the edge of the couch and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So maybe I am insecure. Maybe I'm just still not over what happened in the labs –” if Pritchard had even an ounce of sympathy he'd be surprised, “ – but can you blame me? Every day I have a stack of death threats to us on my desk, and I have to go through all of them, all through the detail of what they want to do to Sarif. To me. How everyone who works in this building deserves to die. I –”

A pause at the social enhancer's indication. Pritchard watched him with a critical squint, no longer focused on the bike. Had the pheromones finally kicked in? “I don't want to get a call saying one of those wackos finally got to our boss. I don't think I could deal with that.” He raised his head, hesitated, and then retracted his eye shields. “And I know you couldn't either.”

Pritchard's gaze stayed level, unafraid to meet his augmented eyes. After a moment, the social aug piped up. Something there, something that made the orange lines tick into little spikes, but Pritchard sniffed, arms folded. The juxtaposition with what CASIE picked up had his fingers clenching the couch in frustration. What had made Pritchard so great at keeping such a short leash on emotions?

“He'll be fine.” A step forward instead of back, and Pritchard leaned over him. Any other time it would have his hackles up, but the haze of pheromones mellowed over any serious anger. “You, on the other hand, Jensen, need to seek some kind of medical attention. Your brain doesn't seem to be processing the concept of 'no.' Maybe that bullet scrambled your brain more than we realised. Or were you this dense when you were a cop?”

A shrug hid another release of pheromones. “Okay, Francis. He gets into trouble and I'm coming for you first.”

“You're delusional.” Pritchard's cheek twitched, an irritated tic, and the tri-coloured motorcycle jacket came off with a flourish. “It's too hot in here. Don't tell me, the AC's broken again, right?” And before he could answer, a blink of confusion, a hitched intake of breath. CASIE's satisfied blip of lines spiked with an erratic violence he'd only seen trying to use his social enhancer on drunks, or those who were more unstable than the usual people he had to talk down.

Pink bled into Pritchard's pale cheeks. CASIE honed in on the sudden swallow, the expansion of pupils into black holes ringed with a sliver of grey.

He leaned forward a little more, caught the smell of sweat and the tinge of of whatever woody aftershave clung to the turtleneck. “Pritchard? You doing okay?”

“I- I don't...” Pritchard teetered towards the couch, slumped down in the end seat. Pink deepened to red. “I'm... fine.”

“You don't look fine.” A thread of panic under the pheromones. Pretty sure they weren't supposed to do this. Pritchard's breathing turned to deep inhales. Faster heartbeat, way too fast than he wanted. Pupil focus sharpened as those eyes fixed on him with the intensity of a snake. “Francis? Think I should take you down to the labs.” He'd have a hell of a time trying to explain this to all the scientists.

With a slow shake of head, Pritchard sat up straighter, fingers digging into the soft foam of the seat. “No. No, it's just too hot in here. It must be the AC, I just need to cool down. Or you could go and get me the water bottle on my desk if you're not too busy lounging around, Jensen.”

A spark of normal-Pritchard there. That was a good sign, right?

He sighed and threw up his hands in an _'if I must'_ gesture. “All right, Your Highness, but don't expect me to start feeding you grapes.”

Pritchard's eyes stayed on him as he made his way to the desk and grabbed the half-full bottle there. Oh yeah, the social enhancer definitely had its claws dug in deep. If he left the room, odds were that Pritchard would follow like a puppy on a leash. An interesting thought.

Back at the couch, and he unscrewed the lid, held out the bottle. “Here. One water for the –”

A hand shot out, grabbed his wrist. The bottle fell to the floor and made sad chuggling noises until most of the water had escaped.

He didn't move.

The glare burned. Pritchard's teeth clenched together, and fingers tightened against his augmented skin. “What did you _do?_ ”

“Tried to get you to see things from my point of view.” If he lied, it would probably come back to bite him in the ass. “Think I hit you too hard with the CASIE aug. How about we go down to the labs? They'll find a way to deal with this.” And give him a well-deserved lecture on pheromone use around co-workers.

Fingers moved up his arm, stroked the inside of his wrist, and passed with a feather-touch over the mechanism for his blade. Too intimate to be mistaken for anything else. The touch snagged something in his throat, held tight to his breath for a long moment. “Pritchard...”

He couldn't say afterwards if Pritchard yanked him down or if he leaned in, but the next second, arms wound around the back of his neck, a flash of grey eyes before lips pressed against his mouth, hot and insistent. Off-balance, he stumbled forward in a semi-controlled descent, knees on either side of Pritchard's thighs, hand gripping the back of the couch to stop himself from putting all his augmented weight on Pritchard's lap.

A half-hearted attempt to pull away stopped at the slow, slick draw of a tongue across his lips. Sparks of lust kindled between his legs with a pleasant warmth. Whatever part of his brain was in charge of making rational decisions fought the rising tide of pleasure, and rising... other things. Shouldn't do this, not with a co-worker, not with _Pritchard_ , absolutely should _not_ do –

Excitement overruled guilt in a powerful flood. He opened his mouth, shivered at the brief slide of tongue against his.

For the head of security he sure wasn't doing a great job. If someone came by, some night-owl workaholic like them, or even one of the cleaners, he'd have a hell of a time trying to explain why he'd decided to straddle the head of cyber security on the tech lab couch, in full view of anyone who happened to walk by.

When he drew back, reluctant and lingering, his hand went to Pritchard's shoulder to thwart any more spontaneous contact. No surprise that his first few intakes of breath came hard, been a while since he'd been kissed that deep for that long.

“Pritchard.” Too hot, too damn hot, and now the heat spread, warmed his own cheeks, left him biting his lip. “C'mon. Snap out of it, you have to –”

“I told Sarif you... you were trouble.” Hands, cool despite the thick syrup of air, braced the sides of his neck, thumbs stroking under his ears. Pritchard's eyes caught his and wouldn't let him look away. “You'd... s-screw up. Now look what you've done.”

Fingertips moved from his neck to his hair, dragged across his scalp. Maybe he should take his own advice, snap out of it, but Pritchard was  _right there_ , between his damn legs, panting hard enough for his brain to jump ship. The tension between them, the months of mutual sneering and snide jabs morphed into frustration. Couldn't strangle Pritchard, or fight until they were sure exactly who was in charge, but this...

“A... mess.” Pritchard's fingers trembled through his hair, and the words sounded more like a declaration of affection. “That's what you are.” Pressure surged against the hand on Pritchard's shoulder. Pritchard strained, pulled him forward, but he held back. Sense glimmered behind the hungry fog. Anyone could walk past. Anyone.

Even Sarif, strolling past the tech lab en route to the lobby, could throw a casual glance in and and see them... engaged. Surely Sarif didn't care how they spent their spare time, but in the workplace? They'd probably be looking for a new job before the weekend. He wrenched himself out of Pritchard's grip. A snarl followed him, Pritchard's hands clawing the air with the desperation of a withdrawal-ridden drug addict. They caught his coat, twisted in the material. “You- can't-” 

“I'm not.” His own fingers slipped between Pritchard's, untangled as gently as he could. “You sit here and wait.” Because if Pritchard stood, went with him to the doorway, they'd end up crushed against the glass wall, even more visible, but by that point he wouldn't care. “Sit there, and if you get up I'm walking out the door, understand?”

Jaw clenched, hands kneading the couch seats, Pritchard managed a nod.

“Good boy.”

No doubt tomorrow there'd be some kind of recompense for that, but the strangled moan of reply chased him, sent a low throb of heat through his stomach. The light switch panel fumbled under his fingers. Fucking thing, why wouldn't it-

A crunch of plastic, and the now-broken switch plunged the room into semi-darkness. Glow from the computer screen still spilled into half the office, but Pritchard and the couch formed grey shadows. Someone pressing their face into the glass like a kid at a zoo would be able to make them out, but who would bother?

Dim half-light blinked brighter as the optical aug adjusted to the light levels. Another moan brought him back to the couch. Eyes flickered over his body, followed the casual shift of his shoulders as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the seat of the motorcycle. Pritchard leaned forward on the couch, ran a hand up his leg to his hip. The border of human and augmented skin tickled when fingertips slid under his shirt, into the waistband of his pants. Knuckles brushed his erection, long fingers fumbled at a button, a zipper. Contagious excitement.

He batted those hands away, came down as Pritchard came up, arms around his waist. Their bodies tangled, weight on top of his legs, his chest. The armrest fit the back of his neck. Damn couch wasn't even nearly big enough for them both to get comfortable, but that didn't really matter, not with Pritchard's insistent panting in his ear, or the press of tongue against his throat. After all this time, another warm body nestled into him intoxicated whatever rational senses remained.

Pritchard leaned back, straddled with one leg over the side of the couch, foot on the floor. If pheromones hadn't been in play, no doubt a smirk would be stretching Pritchard's face – _well, well, Jensen, looks like someone finally got you on your back_ – but hunger showed itself as narrowed eyes, parted and swollen lips. If only they had a fucking bed –

Strands of loose hair brushed his forehead. He caught Pritchard's face in both hands, controlled the kiss into something slow and restrained. Then hem of the turtleneck slipped between his fingers, pushed up. Skin beneath, soft and warm under his palms, skin he could now touch. Pritchard's mewl vibrated through his lips, urged him to explore higher, to run his thumbs over ridges of ribs and the hard bumps of nipples.

The mouth on his grew bolder, nipped at his jaw, sucked his throat. Weight pinned him to the couch. Captured. On his back. Aching with each roll of hip between his legs. If it wasn't Pritchard, maybe he would have indulged, explored himself as well as the body on top, but he needed to take control, not give.

Easy to roll Pritchard to the side, against the back of the couch, not so easy to stay on the couch itself. Lucky for him Pritchard's arms never let go, clung tight and kept him from falling. A heave of his body, and a bit of manhandling, and his chest pressed into Pritchard's. On top this time.

Long legs wrapped around his waist. A hand though his hair again, this time tugging, stinging. _“Do it,”_ Pritchard hissed in his ear, _“do it. Whatever you want.”_

Whatever he wanted.

Lust hit like electricity, stung through every cell and nerve. A growl from his own mouth, victory and anticipation rolled into one. Fingers found Pritchard's pants, tore them down over bony hips and long legs, dropped them over the edge of the couch. Hard flesh in his hand, hot and twitching. Pritchard arched under him, a snarl silenced by his lips, his tongue.

“I want you.” Desire ground his voice even deeper. Pritchard gazed up at him, steel eyes still fierce, gasping through words.

“About... damn time... Jensen.”

If they had a bed, he'd take things slower, strip off Pritchard's turtleneck, his own clothes, examine every inch of skin with his mouth.

When he spat on his fingers, he made sure Pritchard saw. The expression of aroused contempt didn't change until he shifted, gave himself enough space to reach that hand down, and stroked skin that yielded to his fingers, then eased himself inside. A hoarse moan, and Pritchard gripped the back of his neck, rode his careful twisting and dipping.

Wouldn't Sarif be surprised to learn they were finally getting along so well?

He withdrew with one last curl, and another kiss. Never even considered kissing Pritchard before all of this, but now it tasted of addiction. Just the pheromones, or something deeper?

Pritchard's teeth scored his ear, nipped down to his neck. Words, incomprehensible in their excitement, muffled into his throat, but the jist was pretty clear. _Now._

Gentle, had to be gentle, even with every muscle tense and ready. Another round of saliva on his fingers, but this time he slid them down his own erection. Inadequate under any other circumstances, but he didn't have time to play hunt-the-suitable-lube. Pritchard's eyes stayed on his, and when he pushed the first slow inch inside, those swollen lips formed his name in a breathless plea. _Adam._ Not Jensen. _Adam._

A quick glance up to see if anyone stared through the glass reassured him that everyone had gone home for the night. Fingertips ran under his shirt, nails catching his skin when he sighed and slipped all the way in. Constriction, around his erection and his body. Could stay like that for hours, enjoying the sensation of being wanted again, being desired, but Pritchard thrust up with a whine and brief sting of fingernails.

As awkward as the position was, he leaned down, caught Pritchard's lips when he began to move. Gradual at first, whispers escaping between the kisses, but the hollow clench of adrenaline at doing such a thing _at work_ drove his pace faster and faster. Brief flashes of pain clawed his back, healed in an instant by the health implant, a tiny defiance that sent his lust soaring. Heat back in his hand – _gentle,_ had to be gentle – and his name came broken and stumbling and loud. A kiss to silence, before any guards came to investigate, and Pritchard caught his tongue, sucked in time to his frenzied thrusts.

Pleasure built in waves, shivered through flesh and augmentations alike. Couldn't stop, not even if Sarif suddenly showed up at the glass, not with Pritchard urging him on with hands and mouth.

His fingers clenched, vice-tight into the couch, punctured the soft material casing the cushions. A harsh sound tangled in his throat, ripped itself free from behind his teeth. One last roll of his hips. He came with his face buried in Pritchard's neck, tensing and releasing. Pleasure spilled, overflowed, white-hot –

“ _Adam.”_ The whisper trailed the end of his orgasm, soothed down the shuddering swell of shocks that twitched his legs.

Body too heavy, every ragged breath slower than the one before. Why get up, why not stay here, encased in satiety, the smell of oil and aftershave and sweat in his nose?

Pressure against his cheek, his temple. Light kisses. He hauled himself up on his elbows, nearly falling off the fucking couch again, and met Pritchard's wild stare.

Right, how rude of him.

He slipped a hand between them, wrapped his fingers around Pritchard's erection. Still in control.

Grey eyes held his, and as he moved his wrist slowly they narrowed. The turtleneck bunched up to mid-chest, and with his other hand he stroked the flat stomach it exposed. No need for any words of encouragement; when he squeezed, Pritchard whimpered, a sound he'd never heard before from those stubborn lips.

The slow pump of his hand gave his heart time to calm down, his breath to steady. Still buried to the hilt, but without the wild race of blood in his ears. Under him, Pritchard's whimper turned to a growl, hips pushing up for faster friction. He pressed his thumb harder against the underside, and moved as quickly as he dared. “Good boy.”

A rebellious snap of teeth was his reply, but in his hand, Pritchard's erection jerked. He slowed, then moved faster, a teasing wax and wane of pressure.

With a grunt, Pritchard tensed, rigid in his grip. Eyes squeezed shut. Wayward strands of hair stuck to a pink forehead, and in that moment he wanted Pritchard again.

Hands reached for him. Without reluctance he bent down, kissed Pritchard hard as hot flesh seized in his fingers, pulsed with every stroke. Moans shivered through his mouth. He held Pritchard there, mewling and writhing underneath him, until the mewls fell silent, the writhes became still. Their lips continued to touch, barely brushing over each other.

He gave it a few minutes, eased himself out of Pritchard with a sigh, and rested there. No complaining from his augmented muscles about the awkward position, and Pritchard made no move to shove him off. Chin on the bunched hem of turtleneck, he rested. When he did glance up, Pritchard's eyes were closed, face tilted up towards the ceiling as though already asleep. He cleared his throat, loosened the emotion that tightened it, and scraped his short beard across Pritchard's skin. “Whatever I want, huh?”

Fingers smoothed down his hair. Petted like a cat – well, he wasn't about to complain. Pritchard's eyes stayed shut. “I said you were a mess.” Voice more even than his, steady and nearly normal. “Seducing your co-workers. Abusing your abilities. What _would_ Sarif say, Jensen?”

CASIE switched on with a sleepy flick of orange. Pheromones still present in the air, a lower count than before. Dispersed into all the space of the room. Wearing off Pritchard rapidly after orgasm, but the hand in his hair didn't stop stroking. Hypnotic, drowse-inducing. He'd purr if he could.

“Don't think he'd say anything. We'd just take a nice trip back down to the labs to go neuter my social enhancer.” A yawn stretched his jaw. Could go to sleep right about now, if they weren't in the damn tech lab. He yanked himself away from Pritchard's tempting warmth and tucked himself back into his pants. When he stood, it was on unsteady legs. Pheromones seemed to have affected him a little worse than Pritchard, and he took a wobbly step around the wet patch on the ground where the water bottle spilled. Probably what he deserved.

“And I think it's safe to say you ruined my couch.” Pritchard shifted into a sitting position. Slowly. “Honestly, Jensen. What would you do if someone saw us? There's definitely not room for three on here.”

“No one saw, so it doesn't matter.” He held out the abandoned pair of pants on the floor, sighed when Pritchard snatched them from him and tugged them back on. “You okay?”

CASIE displayed amusement, an emotion that passed as a tired tremor through Pritchard's face. Almost a smile, he could take that. “Aside from the ruined couch? I'm annoyed that I now have to go home and shower instead of fix my bike because _someone_ decided to use his weird augmentations in the office. You couldn't have picked a worse place, could you, Jensen?”

“Back to formalities, huh?” The whisper of a memory, of that gasp of _“Adam”_ in his ear. Whatever twisted his stomach decided to twist his tongue too. “What's a good place for me to use my weird augmentations?”

An eyebrow raised at his terrible flirting. Maybe Pritchard assumed he'd just leave, bury the whole thing as some dirty little secret. “In my apartment. Obviously.”

Damn, that _you're-not-smart_ tone was growing on him. Maybe he had himself a little masochistic streak.

Pritchard stood, edged towards the bike and grabbed the motorcycle jacket. “The cameras will have picked up that you've been in here a while. Not a problem, unless Sarif suddenly decides he wants to see who goes where at night. If he does –” Pritchard zipped up the jacket, turned to face him, “the excuse is your problem, understand, Jensen?”

What had he gotten into? He nodded, but Pritchard had already turned away. Long brown hair came down from Pritchard's ponytail, and he got a flash, a sudden glimpse of what it would look like spread across his pillow, before it swept back up again, fastened with a deft movement. “I'd rather he didn't...” Hands patted down pockets, slipped inside one to pull out a phone, then put it back in again. “Didn't know. He might not like it.”

“Yeah, can't argue with that.”

Hands in pockets, Pritchard appraised him with a smile – tiny, but a smile all the same. “Now, do you still want to accompany Sarif to the conference? Or stay here?” _With me_ his mind filled in and the smile implied.

Shit. Clever bastard. “Sarif –”

“Will be fine.” A tick-tock of impatience from CASIE, smoothed over when Pritchard stepped forward, right into the personal bubble that had popped between them. “I'd prefer that you stay.”

Pritchard came closer, and the kiss was a slow build of heat, an uncoiling of tension. And he didn't mind that, not now.

When he made the decision, his lips brushed Pritchard's ear. “I'll stay.”

A smile against his neck. “A good decision at last, Adam. It's about time.”

 


End file.
